


Louder Than Words

by JJJunky



Category: Young Riders
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kid and Jimmy's friendship is put to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Louder Than Words

Louder Than Words  
By JJJunky

 

Jimmy stood over his half-eaten meal. His face flushed with anger, he pointed a finger at the boy sitting directly across from him. "You say you're Ulysses' friend, yet you defend the system that put those scars on his back."

"I'm not defendin' slavery," the Kid repudiated. "I'm just sayin' I understand the South's position."

"Then you're defendin' slavery," Hickok triumphantly declared.

Emma stood over the hot stove stirring cornmeal, milk, sugar, and molasses into an Indian pudding. Her ears rang as the angry voices rose in volume. It was a pain she would willingly endure for her "boys" under normal circumstances, but the fire burning between Hickok and the Kid would not be easy to extinguish. The two fought often, both verbally and physically. Fights that were quickly forgotten and forgiven. This fight was different. Emma didn't need to see their faces to know that. She could hear it in their voices. She desperately yearned to end the argument. If she told them to stop, they would obey her. However, as soon as she was no longer around, the discussion would resume. Jimmy greatly admired the Kid, though for undisclosed reasons he denied the feeling, often going so far as to deliberately pick a fight with the other boy. This time, all it had taken was an off-hand remark by Cody about the war brewing in the East to get Hickok preaching his father's abolitionist views. Some of his accusations had been unjust, forcing the Kid to defend the land of his birth. Sighing unhappily, Emma wished Teaspoon Hunter was here rather than in St. Joe at the main office of the Pony Express. He'd know what to say to end the fight once and for all.

The six riders had been in her care for only a few months, but it had taken mere days for Emma to start treating them as her own. She tried to love them all, even with their faults. Yet, despite his easy going nature and pleasant manners, the Kid had been the most difficult for her to accept. His leadership qualities and his compassion had impressed her, even as his support of the South and his attitude toward blacks had repelled her. Recently, her thoughts and feelings had taken a drastic turn when the Kid had risked his life to save a runaway slave named Ulysses. 

Listening to the argument continuing behind her, Emma found herself being persuaded back to her original feelings concerning the Kid -- and she hated herself for it. Hickok's accusation made her turn from the stove in time to see emotions that usually remained hidden play across the Kid's face as he rose to his feet to confront his adversary.

"What makes your high and mighty Union so right, Jimmy? In your own home state of Illinois, Black Laws were enacted to discourage Negroes from settling within its borders. Most northern states won't allow them to vote. None will allow them to serve on a jury. And even those whose relatives fought in the revolution aren't allowed to join a state militia."

"At least we don't treat them like property." Obviously satisfied that he had made an allegation that couldn't be disputed, Jimmy returned to his seat with a smug expression.

Her arm dropped to her side as Emma gave her full attention to the combatants. She wanted to see the Kid's face when he responded to Hickok's accusation. She was hoping she could find some answers to the questions plaguing her about the young boy.

"Even property has to be cared for," the Kid thoughtfully noted. His eyes gazed out the window into the darkness beyond. "They don't go to bed hungry."

"Unless they did something their master didn't like," accused Jimmy.

"You're condemning us all for what a few have done," the Kid proclaimed, hurt audible in his voice. "Not everyone in the South has a fancy home with slaves to do the work."

Frightened by the glimpse of the Kid's childhood that had been revealed in the simple statement, Emma stepped forward. "This country may be headin' for war, but I will not have it fought in my house. Have I made myself understood?"

"Emma," Hickok protested, "how can you take the Kid's side after what you did for Ulysses?'

"I'm not takin' sides," the young woman denied angrily, shaking her finger to re-enforce her statement.

"Rider comin' in." Relief that the argument would come to an end clearly evident on his face, Buck pushed back from the table. 

Lou put a hand on her friend's arm and pushed him toward the door. "You're up, Kid."

The Kid's initial resistance quickly yielded to his sense of duty. As he took his hat and holster off a hook on the wall, he warned, "This isn't over, Jimmy."

"I'll be ready whenever you are," Hickok confidently replied, picking up his fork to resume his meal.

Tears pooled in Emma's eyes as she returned her attention to the warm pudding. They were too young to have so much anger.

* * * *

The sun was almost directly overhead when Teaspoon crested the low ridge overlooking Emma Shannon's ranch. Pulling his horse to a stop, he watched with pride and admiration as the Kid, his clothes covered with dust, rode across the plain and up to the barn, barely slowing as he approached his relief. The pouch changed hands in the blink of an eye. Buck's mount was already in motion, stretching his long legs across the browning grass by the time the Indian had pulled himself up into the saddle.

Easing his horse down the hill at a more sedate pace, Teaspoon mentally reviewed his visit to St. Joseph, Missouri. Ostensively, he'd been summoned to the head office to attend a supervisors' meeting. It had been called to give the men an opportunity to discuss ways of making the job more efficient and safer for the riders. However, most of their time had been spent listening to William Waddell, one of the primary founders of the Pony Express, direct them to make every effort to cut costs. This entreaty had negated most of the ideas presented earlier in the meeting.

As disturbed as he had been over these developments, Teaspoon faced something far more troubling. Summoned to the General Manager's office, he'd received an order to send the Kid to St. Joe. He had been told that if the boy failed to present himself by the end of the week, the Sweetwater Station would get a new supervisor - and a new rider.

The threat of losing his job didn't bother Teaspoon half as much as the reason behind the order. St. Joseph's had its own riders. What was so special about the Kid? Dust swirled around the older man as he approached the boy who had filled his mind with questions. His eyes thoughtfully studied the Kid, who was leading his paint mare in slow, wide circles. Dried salt liberally dusted the brown patches a dull white on the exhausted mare.

"Welcome back, Teaspoon," the Kid called, his steps never faltering as he greeted his superior and friend.

The ranch seemed unusually quiet Teaspoon noted as he dismounted and loosened the cinch strap securing his saddle. "Where is everybody?'

"I don't know," admitted the Kid, stopping to take the reins of Teaspoon's mount. "I just got in myself."

More tired than he wanted to acknowledge, Teaspoon gratefully allowed the young boy to take charge of his horse. The long, hard ride had rattled his bones, making them ache. His gait slow and uneven, he crossed to the long building that served as bedroom, dining room and parlor for the riders. "I'll check the bunkhouse and see if they left a note sayin' where they've gone."

"I'll be in as soon as I finish rubbin' down the horses," said the Kid, leading the two animals toward the barn.

Though it was bright and sunny outside, the bunkhouse was shrouded with gloom. The curtains had been drawn to keep out the light. It wasn't until his eyes had adjusted to the change that Teaspoon noticed Hickok lounging in his bunk. "The place isn't as deserted as we thought."

"Buck's on a run," Jimmy ungraciously offered. "The others went to town for supplies."

His eyes on the pearl handled pistol the sullen boy was fondling, Teaspoon finally made his decision, "Makeup two bedrolls, Jimmy."

Hickok immediately jumped to his feet, his depression disappearing with the eager anticipation of action. "Where we goin', Teaspoon?"

"You and the Kid," emphasized Teaspoon, "are goin' to St.Joe."

Well aware of his supervisor's displeasure when there was dissention among the riders, Hickok carefully offered, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

This was not the response the exhausted man wanted - or expected. Frustration sharpening his tone, Teaspoon snapped, "As long as you work at this station, you'll do as I say, like it or not."

His mouth open to argue his cause, Jimmy took one look at the older man before meekly agreeing. "Yes, sir. What are we suppose to do in St. Joe?"

"Arthur T. Merriweather, General Manager of the Pony Express, wants to see the Kid," explained Teaspoon.

Securing the end of the bedroll he'd prepared, Jimmy asked, "What for?"

"I don't know," the older man admitted, throwing supplies into a saddlebag. "That's why I want you to go along. I think the Kid might need some help."

"Don't ya think it'd be better if one of the others went with him?" pressed Hickok avoiding the older man's eyes.

Puzzled by the obvious reluctance in the normally impetuous young man, Teaspoon shook his head. "There isn't time. You have to be in St. Joe by noon on Friday. If you leave now and ride hard, you'll just make it as it is."

Tying off a second bedroll, Hickok mumbled, "I just hope we both make it there alive."

* * * *

People lined the wooden sidewalk spilling out onto the dusty street preventing Emma from tying up outside Thompkins' General Store. More curious than angry, she jumped off the buckboard almost before Ike had reined in the horses. Pushing through the crowd with Cody and Lou close on her heels, she listened with half an ear to the passing conversations which included words like theft and robbery. The joy on many of the faces puzzled her, considering the limited knowledge she'd gained on her journey.

"Hello, Emma."

Sam Cain's greeting opened a passage for the independent woman. Entering Thompkins' Store, Emma slipped into the protection of the small area circling the marshal. "What's going on, Sam?'

"Somebody robbed Thompkins." Pointing to the large man angrily slamming his fist into the counter without regard to body or furniture, Sam elaborated, "He took blankets, flour, cornmeal, cheese, and crackers."

"Wow," Cody's voice and face were filled with awe. "We ain't never had anyone brave enough to waylay Thompkins before."

Frowning at the young man's obvious enjoyment of the situation, Emma confronted the marshal, "Whaddya gonna do, Sam?' 

"Form a posse," Sam reluctantly admitted.

The crowd around them acted as though they were at a party. Laughter and jokes - all at Thompkins' expense - echoed around the room fueling the store owner's ire.

Hiding a smile behind a raised hand, Emma noted, "I think you might have a slight problem gettin' that posse, Sam. Thompkins has been stealin' this town blind for years. I don't think you're gonna find anyone willin' to track down the man who returned the favor."

"I know," Sam unhappily conceded. "I was hopin' I could persuade you to let the boys help me."

His dirty face glowing with excitement, Cody eagerly offered, "I'll go."

Before Emma could voice her agreement, Lou and Ike volunteered their services. Shaking her head, the young woman observed, "I guess you've got your posse."

"Do you want me to ride out and get the Kid and Jimmy?" asked Lou.

"I think the four of us can handle it," Sam countered.

Left alone, Emma wistfully sighed. Chasing bandits seemed much more exciting - and safer - than facing a still irate Thompkins. Sometimes, life just didn't play fair. 

* * * *

The Kid nervously twisted his hat in his hands. Around him, the frantic activity of the employees that kept the Pony Express operational never seemed to abate. It ebbed and flowed around the two young men as though they didn't exist. Sunlight, dimmed by partially drawn shades, couldn't penetrate the shadows washing the room - and its inhabitants - with an undeniable desolation. Dust danced in the streams of light showing more life than the live occupants. Desperately wishing he was back at Emma Shannon's ranch or out on a run, the Kid surreptitiously glanced over at Hickok.

They had barely spoken during the long hard ride to St. Joe. The Kid had kept silent out of a sense of fear. It wasn't Hickok's quick temper or fast gun that scared him, it was the fear of losing the other boy's friendship. Emma, Teaspoon, and the other riders were his family now. If he didn't push Jimmy, maybe their animosity would fade. He didn't want to see their differences destroy the closeness they had shared.

"Which one of you is called the Kid?"

His head jerking as much with surprise as with acknowledgement, the Kid partially raised a hand. "I am."

"Follow me," ordered the older man, his expensive clothes setting him apart from the other workers. 

Exchanging a quick, puzzled glance with Hickok, the Kid shrugged his shoulders before obeying. "Yes, sir."

The man led the boys to a large office at the end of the corridor. At the door, he pointed first at Hickok, then back the way they had come. "Your presence is unnecessary, young man. Please return to your seat."

"And if I don't?" Jimmy defiantly challenged.

Putting a calming hand on his friend's shoulder, the Kid soothed, "It's all right, Jimmy."

Reluctantly, Hickok complied with his friend's wishes, though it was obvious he was yielding to the Kid rather than the officious gentlemen who had made the request. As he made his way back to his seat, his eyes constantly scanned the room. His right hand was never far from his gun. The circumstances had clearly made him suspicious - and wary.

The door closed behind the Kid with a loud bang. Already uneasy, the sound made him jump. His eyes sought cover even as he sheepishly acknowledged his nerves were on edge.

* * * *

"Mr. Merriweather was unexpectedly called away," the man explained, crossing to the ornate desk on the other side of the large room. "He has authorized me to act on his behalf."

"What exactly does he want me to do?" asked the Kid, his nervousness disappearing as he gazed around the opulent office.

Rounding the desk, the man stopped in front of a picture of President James Buchanan hanging on the back wall. To the Kid's surprise, he swung it aside to reveal a safe. Positioning his body so it hid the wheel from view, he rotated the dial. A click echoed loudly in the quiet room as the last number of the combination was entered. Opening the heavy door, he extracted an envelope. He carefully closed the door and replaced the picture before rejoining the Kid. "This letter needs to be delivered to a farm near Weatherby, a town about fifty miles north east of here."

"What's the name of the person I'm supposed to contact?" the Kid inquired, noting the blank face on the envelope.

"You don't need to know that," the older man returned. "The farm you're looking for has a white house with a wraparound porch and a red barn. You'll be able to see it west of the main road just before you enter Weatherby."

His fingers examining the unmarked wax that sealed the envelope, the Kid pressed, "How will I know I have the right farm?"

"You don't need to know," was the impatient reply. "Your contact is expecting a special delivery from the Pony Express. No one else is to know that you have that letter, including your friend."

"I have to tell Jimmy something," the Kid protested.

"No, you don't." Crossing to the desk, the man opened a ledger, flipping pages until he finally came to the one he wanted. "Mr. Hunter was instructed to send you here alone. If you are as incapable of following my instructions as he was, you, Mr. Hunter, and your friend will be seeking employment elsewhere. Have I made myself clear?"

The Kid reluctantly folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his buckskin pants. "Yes, sir."

"The only thing you need to know is that what you're carrying is important to the Southern cause," the older man explained, as he escorted the Kid to the door. "Don't let your people down."

A great weight seemed to fall on the Kid's shoulders. Now he understood why they had sent all the way to Sweetwater for him - he was from the South. If he failed to comply with the orders he'd received, his friends would be fired. Yet, the letter he carried could push the country further towards war. Where should his allegiance lie? Lost in the torment of his own mind, the Kid absently followed the older man from the office.

His hand loosely gripping the handle of his gun, Hickok's gaze rested with an unmistakable anger on the slightly stooped figure as he walked away, "What'd he want?'

Lying had never come easy to the Kid, so he avoided his friend's eyes as he replied, "He wanted to tell me what a good job I'm doing."

"That's it?" Jimmy's disbelieving cry echoed throughout the room gaining the attention of the other inhabitants.

His head bent to hide his shame, the Kid reluctantly added, "He also asked me to deliver a message to a friend of his on our way home."

With a heavy heart, the Kid brushed past Hickok leading the two riders from the gloomy surroundings and into the bright sunlight. Wishing it was as easy to free his soul as it had been his body, the Kid untied his horse and threw himself into the saddle. He'd grown up listening to his father's constant lying. Now his greatest fear had been fulfilled: he'd become like his father.

* * * *

Reluctantly turning away from the beauty of the setting sun, Teaspoon blinked his watering eyes as he crossed the short distance between the barn and the bunkhouse. From the corner of his eye, he saw four weary horses - and riders - walking slowly toward the station. Knowing even before they reached him what the answer would be, the older man asked, "Any luck"

"We lost the trail about thirty miles north east of here," Sam admitted. "I thought I'd take Buck and see if he can pick up the trail again."

"It's all right with me, if it's all right with Buck," Teaspoon agreed. "Why don't you stay the night? You can have a hot meal and get an early start in the morning."

Cody almost fell off his horse as he shouted his delight, "Hot food! Those are the most wonderful words I've heard in days."

Uncinching her saddle, Lou teased, "You better hurry, Cody, before Jimmy and the Kid eat it all."

Teaspoon self-consciously cleared his throat. "I sent the Kid and Jimmy to St. Joe."

"Together?" Lou incredulously demanded.

"Emma and Buck have already expressed their opinion of my decision," said Teaspoon defensively. "As I told them, I didn't know there'd been a fight between them the night before."

Earnest brown eyes inspected the worried face. "Would it have made a difference if you had?"

"No," Teaspoon unhesitantingly admitted. "I couldn't let it."

* * * *

A cool breeze howled through the trees dislodging leaves that had turned their hosts into colorful works of art. Despite his desire for haste, the Kid stopped rolling his bedroll. Sitting back on his heels, he let his eyes rest on the beauty the changing season had wrought. He found a desperately needed comfort in the scene. Taking a deep breath, he let the chill of the early morning air revive the spirit in his soul. He'd felt adrift ever since he'd received the letter rustling in his pocket. His Virginia roots had always set him apart from the other riders. Now it threatened their friendship.

"Hey, why didn't you wake me?" Hickok demanded, wiping the sleep from his eyes before resting a puzzled gaze on his friend.

The peace of the moment destroyed forever, the Kid took one last look at the beauty surrounding him before replying, "I thought I'd let you sleep 'til I was ready to go."

"That doesn't make sense," Hickok disgustedly noted, throwing back his blanket and reaching for his boots.

"It does when you realize I'm going on alone," supplied the Kid, tying off his bedroll and climbing to his feet.

"Alone?" One boot half on and half off, Hickok stopped tugging on the stiff leather to regard his friend in exasperation. "What's goin' on?"

"It just seemed silly for both of us to ride all the way to Weatherby when one of us can deliver the message," the Kid replied, crossing to his horse.

The puzzled expression marking Hickok's handsome face changed to anger as he noted the already saddled mount. "It seems to me this is somethin' we coulda discussed last night."

"It just came to me this mornin'," said the Kid, smiling weakly at his friend. Lying had become an easy habit.

"Like hell it did!" With only one boot on, his gait was uneven as Hickok rose to his feet and crossed to his companion's side, "What's this all about, Kid?" 

"I told ya--"

"I heard," interrupted a fuming Hickok. Closing his eyes, the furious boy took several deep breaths to calm himself. It was a technique Teaspoon had taught him to help him control his temper. "I might understand better if I knew what the job was."

Throwing his bedroll across the back of his saddle, the Kid reached for the thin leather straps to tie it down. "It's not important."

"Why won't you talk to me?" Confusion coloring his voice, Hickok asked, "Has this got anythin' to do with that argument we had back in Sweetwater?"

The Kid hid his face as he mentally formulated a reply. If he said yes, not only would he be lying, he might also hurt his friend's feelings. Yet, if he said no, nothing would stop Hickok from accompanying him costing them - and Teaspoon - their jobs. His tongue more glib than he'd like it to be, the Kid said, "Yes, it does."

"Why didn't you say somethin' before?" Hickok inquired, obviously hurt by the admission. "We coulda talked about it."

"You don't talk, Jimmy, you judge," the Kid angrily denounced finding comfort as he vented his feelings. "If somebody's actions or thinking doesn't agree with yours, you attack, sometimes verbally, sometimes physically. Neither is very pleasant for your opponent."

"You were wrong in the way you treated Ulysses," accused Hickok, defending his stance.

"I know," the Kid sadly admitted, untying the reins securing his horse to the tree. "But I'm not wrong about everything."

Hickok grabbed the Kid's arm to prevent him from mounting. "Don't you think I know that?"

"No, you don't, not when it comes to my loyalty to the South." Pulling his arm free, the Kid mounted the bay gelding, wishing Katy had been rested enough to make the journey. Without her, he felt very alone. Holding a tight rein on the impatient mount, he kept his eyes averted as he addressed his friend, "I'll stop at the saloon in Marysville on my return. If you're not there, I'll understand."

* * * *

"It's been too long, Mr. Spoon," Emma announced putting a platter of veal steaks on the table in front of the older man. "Jimmy and the Kid should've been back by this mornin'."

"Now, we don't know that for sure," soothed Teaspoon, spearing one of the steaks before passing the platter to Buck.

The words almost incomprehensible as he tried to speak around a mouthful of dried biscuit, Cody asked, "What do they want with the Kid, anyway? St. Joe's got its own riders."

"I don't know," Teaspoon reluctantly admitted.

The food on her plate lying untouched, Lou announced, "I think we should go after 'em."

"Count me in," agreed Buck, forgetting that he'd already promised to accompany Sam.

"Now hold on," Teaspoon ordered, holding his hands up to emphasize his request. "We don't know enough of the particulars. Us showin' up unexpected could put the Kid and Jimmy in danger."

Rubbing the back of her neck, Lou whispered, "I got a feelin' they're already in trouble."

Though the stove kept the room warm, Emma felt a chill seep down to her bones. Almost from the first, the Kid and Lou had been close friends. Emma had not felt it was odd since she'd realized immediately that Lou was a girl. Could the young woman sense the peril facing her friend? Or was it simple frustration enhanced by imagination that missed the close companionship?

"You don't think Jimmy and the Kid may have started fighting again, do ya?" Buck hesitantly suggested.

"The Kid wouldn't let that happen," offered Teaspoon with a confidence that reassured the others. "Though I bet it was a real quiet ride to St. Joe."

Emma didn't object when Cody took two steaks from the platter before passing it on to Sam. She'd made enough food to feed two more hungry boys, who, despite a silent entreaty, hadn't appeared. How she yearned to saddle a horse and ride to St. Joe herself. But, even as she contemplated the action, she realized Teaspoon was right. Her presence could endanger the boys rather than assist them. She would have to be patient and wait - at least a little longer.

* * * *

The sun was high in the sky when Jimmy rode down the dusty street of Marysville. His anger had taken him almost halfway to St. Joe before his conscience gave him a kick in the pants. Though he still thought the Kid was wrong, they were friends. Not even a war would change that - he hoped.

Hunching his shoulders against a cool breeze that the noon day sun couldn't imbue with warmth, he tied his horse to a hitching rail in front of the saloon. In an act that had become automatic, he alertly scanned the busy street searching for the trouble that always seemed to follow him. Though there was a tension permeating the very air he breathed, he could see nothing to cause the strained atmosphere. Resting his hand near the butt of his gun, he pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon. Just inside, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Finally satisfied that he wouldn't be blindsided by a gun-toting boy out to claim the reputation a writer named Marcus had recently conferred upon him, Hickok slowly made his way to the bar where he ordered a sarsaparilla.

"Jimmy? Jimmy Hickok?"

His hand automatically reaching for his gun, Hickok let it drop as the realization that he hadn't been called "Wild Bill" penetrated to halt the instinctive reaction. Careful to keep his hands away from his side, he slowly turned to confront the man who'd called his name.

Tall and slim, the stranger towered over Hickok. In an effort to diminish his great height, the boy stood with his shoulders slumped forward and his head bowed. The unusual stance awakened an almost forgotten memory in Hickok of a childhood chasing his older brothers and their friends across the Illinois prairie. "Reg Lawler?"

"In the flesh, boy," Reg confirmed, slapping his old friend on the shoulder so hard he almost knocked him to the floor.

Absently wondering how many times he'd endured such a greeting in the years they'd spent growing up together, Hickok forced a welcoming smile, "What brings you to Missouri, Reg? Last I heard you was gonna take over yer pa's farm."

"With all that's goin' on, I couldn't sit back and just ignore it. I wanted to be part of the fight," explained the earnest young man, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bar. "After spendin' so many nights listenin' to your pa preachin' his abolitionist beliefs, there weren't much else I could do."

An overwhelming sadness invaded Hickok's heart. At first he thought it was the reminder of his dead father that had evoked the feeling. But, as his eyes rested on the older boy, he realized it was because his family had influenced this gentle boy/man into a life fraught with a violence that was alien to his nature.

Missouri hadn't known peace since 1854. Yesterday, as they had ridden east, Hickok and the Kid had seen the destruction launched by the Bushwhackers and Jayhawkers. It didn't seem to matter which flag you flew, its adversary was determined to tear it down. If it wasn't obvious which side you supported, you were assaulted by both. Hickok had started to feel his own steadfast beliefs begin to waver. He still fiercely opposed slavery, but he was sure there should be a more peaceful way to eradicate it. Innocent people shouldn't have to suffer. 

"Have you heard anythin' from your brothers?" Reg pressed, his enthusiasm a sharp contrast beside his friend's reticence.

Unwilling to reveal that he still couldn't read or write, Hickok replied, "Not lately."

"Those sure were good times we had back then," Reg wistfully noted, taking a sip of Hickok's drink. "Sometimes I wish I could go back."

A matching desire to see this man/boy in a safer environment spurred Hickok to urge, "Why don't you go home?"

"Too many battles left to fight," Reg sadly revealed.

For the first time, Hickok wondered if the battles Reg anticipated were worth fighting. What was right and what was wrong had become cloudy, disappearing in the faces of the tortured souls destroyed by a sinuous idealism.

"Hey, Reg, Jennison wants us."

Hickok couldn't identify the short, squat man who was the messenger of the summons, but he did recognize the name of the summoner. Charles R. Jennison was prominent in the Jayhawker movement. A Kansan and a doctor, he had a fierce belief in abolition, a belief that matched Hickok's.

Disappointment was audible in Lawler's voice as he responded to the enjoinder, "What's he want, Bob?"

"Don't know for sure," Bob replied, anticipation making his short frame shake. "Whatever it is, I think it's big."

"Looks like I gotta go, Jimmy," Reg mournfully pointed out.

An instinct he couldn't understand or defy, prompted Hickok to ask, "Mind if I come with ya?"

"I don't know," said Reg, desire warring with uneasiness on the ingenuous features.

Hard eyes regarding the rider with obvious suspicion, Bob challenged, "Are you an abolitionist?"

"His pa use to preach against slavery long before all this started," supplied Reg, coming to his old friend's defense. "I learned to hate it sitting on his porch steps."

Slapping Lawler on the shoulder, Bob urged, "Then let him come."

As he followed the others out of the saloon, Hickok almost regretted his request. Something he couldn't define impelled him to proceed. Instinct could be a blessing - or a curse.

* * * *

As he turned his horse onto the narrow lane leading to the farm Merriweather's associate had described, the Kid fought the impulse to retreat. The letter had eaten at his conscience. Awake or asleep, he was conscious of its existence - and the havoc it might work. Was he being selfish in his desire to complete this mission and retain his job with the Pony Express, or was he being loyal to his Southern brothers?

In the fields around him, neatly harvested bales of hay were surrounded by fences of pristine white. Horses of a quality that even Russell, Majors, and Waddell couldn't afford, roamed in the paddocks. Their whinnies to his horse were the only evidence that life existed within its boundaries.

Determined to accomplish his goal and depart as quickly as possible, the Kid kicked his horse into a jog slowing only when he had reached the house. Dismounting, he kept his hand near his gun, but no one challenged his presence.

Climbing the front stairs, he knocked on the heavy wooden door. He'd almost decided there was nobody home when the door suddenly swung open. Facing him was a man of indeterminate age. The clean-shaven face still wore a suggestion of baby fat. His flesh was soft and white, appearing as though it had never been kissed by the sun. An obviously expensive smoking jacket barely covered the ample waist.

"Are you from the Pony Express?"

The loose flesh quivered as the man waited for a reply in eager anticipation. Tempted to deny the association, the Kid reluctantly admitted, "Yes, I am."

"Oh, goody!" Clapping his hands in childish delight, the stranger waved the Kid inside, "Come in, come in."

Following his host down a long hall, the Kid disgustedly noted the ostentatious signs of wealth - and slave labor. The room he was led to was larger than Emma's whole house. A fire burned in the fireplace, taking the chill out of the autumn air. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows, depriving the room of nature's illumination. Lamps were strategically located throughout, but they couldn't dispel the gloomy atmosphere.

"May I have the letter?'

Every instinct fighting the command, the Kid reached into his pocket. Loath to touch the fat, pasty fingers anxiously grasping for the envelope, he practically threw it at the man.

His attention focused on his acquisition, the stranger ignored - or didn't notice - the insult. Slivers of wax drifted down onto the thick carpet as he eagerly tore into the envelope. Pulling out the letter, he moved closer to one of the lamps, giggling as he read. It was a sound that sent a chill down his visitor's spine.

Uncomfortable with what he was seeing and hearing, the Kid started to inch toward the door. Once, when he was almost nine years old, he'd taken the blame for some mischief his brother Jed had perpetrated. To young to be thrown in jail, the local constable, with his father's approval, had opted to teach him a lesson by committing him to the local insane asylum. The man standing before him reminded him of the tortured souls who'd shared his sentence so many years before.

Sweat beaded the pale brow and ran in thin rivulets down the bloated face. "They'll be sorry they stole my property," the man happily gloated. "No one takes what is mine."

The Kid's instinct to run fought with his desire to know the contents of the letter that had almost lost him his job and Jimmy Hickok's friendship. Using what he'd learned so long ago in the insane asylum the Kid spoke softly and slowly, "Who'll be sorry?"

"Those damn abolitionists who took my slaves," the man absently explained, his eyes glued to the paper. "With this list, I'll be able to destroy the Underground Railroad."

Bile rose in the Kid's throat as another, more recent, memory flashed before him. His dark face glowing, Ulysses talked about his hopes and dreams for the future. Including a freedom that could only be won with the support of the Underground Railroad.

That he could be jeopardizing his own future never entered the Kid's mind as he hurried across the room. Tearing the letter from the weak grasp, he ripped it apart before throwing the pieces into the fire. 

The once pale face was now flushed an angry red as the man launched himself at the Kid. The weight of his attacker bore the surprised boy to the floor. Hampered by a desire not to hurt the weaker man, the Kid tried to avoid the fleshy fists raining down on his head and torso.

Neither of the combatants heard the door open. The Kid realized they were no longer alone when he felt a searing pain in his side that experience had taught him could only be the result of a bullet entering his body. The loud retort of a pistol belatedly echoed around the room followed quickly by another. The fists abruptly stopped their assault. Lying beneath the dead weight of his host, the Kid's eyes were drawn toward the open door where they rested on the familiar figure of a man with a gun pointed at him. As his vision dimmed, he wondered why Jimmy Hickok would shoot him.

* * * *

"How far ahead do you think he's gotten?" called Sam, pulling in his horse and taking a drink from his canteen.

Using the opportunity to wipe the dust from his eyes, Buck noted, "They're on foot, so it shouldn't be too much further."

"They!"

"Near as I can figure," said Buck, "there's two adults and at least three children. The woman's tracks are deep, so she's either heavy or she's carrying a fourth child."

Desperately wishing the water in his canteen was something with more kick, Sam took another long swallow. From the beginning, nothing had seemed to be as it should. Who would rob Thompkins' of material goods, yet leave the money? As he followed Buck into the hills, Sam was sorry he'd left Cody, Lou and Ike behind. Two guns had seemed sufficient to capture a single thief. Would it be enough against a desperate family?

* * * *

As soon as he saw the bay gelding tied up in front of the house, Hickok was glad he'd listened to his instincts. Joining Jennison, Reg, Bob, and three other men, he'd entered the house. The sound of flesh contacting flesh led them to a large room at the end of a long hallway. Just as Jimmy recognized the Kid grappling with a heavyset man, two shots rang out. The fight immediately ceased.

Shock and sorrow kept Jimmy immobile as Bob crossed to the bodies. Though short, the man was obviously powerful as he easily pulled the dead weight of the heavier man off the slighter form underneath.

Resting a suspicious hand on the Kid's nose and mouth, Bob cocked his gun as he rose to his feet. "This one's still alive. Do you want me to finish him off?"

"No," Jennison ordered, fingering the empty envelope he'd picked up off the floor. "Maybe he can tell us who sent him here and what happened to the list."

The news that the Kid was still alive galvanized Hickok into action. Moving away from the door, he cautiously made his way around his companions to stand over his injured friend. "Drop your guns," he commanded in a voice that cracked slightly.

"Stop kidding around, Jimmy," Reg laughed, taking a few steps toward his childhood playmate. 

"That's far enough, Reg," warned Hickok, aiming his gun at the boy's heart. "This isn't a game."

There was no fear on his face, only amusement as Jennison pointed out, "You're one against six, boy."

"You might get me," Jimmy conceded, shifting his gun to let it rest on the leader, "but not before I get you."

"That's a valid observation. Drop your guns, boys," ordered Jennison, unbuckling his own holster.

Bob shook his head. "We can take him, Doc."

"If you want to challenge Wild Bill Hickok," Jennison offered, dropping his gun belt to the floor, "go ahead."

For once, Jimmy was grateful for the reputation the dime novels had awarded him. Not another word was spoken as five gun belts hit the floor. Waving his gun threateningly, he instructed, "Now get your hands up and stand in the middle of the room."

Reg stepped forward as the others immediately complied. "Jimmy, what're ya doin'?"

"What I have to, Reg," defended Hickok. Pointing to the body at his feet, he explained, "He's my friend."

"I thought I was your friend, too." Hurt was clearly audible in the forlorn voice.

"You were," Hickok amended, "you are, but right now he needs me more."

Jennison's eyes burned with a rage that wasn't reflected on his face. "Is that friendship worth dying for Hickok?"

The rebels' leader had put the ultimate price on his relationship with the Kid. To his own surprise, Jimmy realized it was worth paying. "Yes, it is."

Keeping his eyes and his gun directed at the Jayhawkers, Hickok bent down to shake the Kid's shoulder. "Wake up, Kid." When there was no response, his voice became more desperate and his grip a little harder as he repeated the command. If the Kid couldn't walk out of the house on his own two feet, they were doomed.

A groan was the first sign that the injured boy was about to regain consciousness. Encouraged, Jimmy gently slapped the pale cheeks.

"Leave me alone." The voice was weak, but determined.

"I'd love to," Hickok smiled despite his concern, "except we have a little problem here. Do ya think ya can ride?'

"If I have to," the Kid grudgingly admitted, his unfocused gaze sweeping over Hickok to the men in the center of the room. "What's goin' on?"

His eyes and gun hand never faltering, Hickok used his free hand to help his friend to his feet. "I'll explain later." He slipped his arm under the Kid's shoulders, urging him toward the door.

"You're both dead, you know," Jennison called.

"So is anybody who sticks their head out this door," Hickok advised, easing the Kid through the narrow opening.

The door had barely closed behind the two boys before Jimmy was practically carrying his friend down the hallway back outside. After lifting the Kid up into the saddle, Hickok untied the other horses. As he leapt up onto his own horse, he grabbed the reins of the Kid's gelding. Firing a single shot into the air, he sent the horses flying down the lane.

As soon as he could safely do so, Jimmy broke away from the riderless mounts and into the surrounding forest. It was the only sanctuary open to them in the unknown territory. They were fugitives from a war that was attempting to make them enemies to each other.

* * * *

The glow of the setting sun reflected brightly along the horizon. Despite the chill wind blowing across the corral, Lou leaned her elbows on the top rail of the fence and enjoyed the spectacle. But even its beauty couldn't alleviate her concern at the Kid's continued absence.

"Don't worry, Lou," admonished Ike, his hands doing the talking his voice couldn't. "The Kid's all right. Jimmy has a temper, but he'd never hurt the Kid."

Resting her chin on her hands, Lou admitted, "It's not Jimmy I'm worried about. It's the secrecy. Why was the Kid ordered to St. Joe? They got their own riders." Nibbling nervously on the broken nail on her little finger, the young girl appealed, "Do you think they might be plannin' to fire him, Ike?"

"Not the Kid," Ike reassured shaking his head. "More likely they wanna give him a promotion."

Lou's face brightened for a moment before dismay returned. "But that would mean he'd go to another station."

"Or replace Teaspoon here," Ike hesitantly suggested.

"Nobody would be that stupid," Lou indignantly declared.

"No one who knows him would." The last ray of the sun slipped below the horizon. Buttoning his coat, Ike signed, his fingers rising above the back of his head to indicate the chiefs of the Pony Express, Russell, Majors, and Waddell. "They don't know Teaspoon like we do."

Wrapping her arms around herself to protect her from a chill that had nothing to do with the wind, Lou asked, "What will we do if they fire Teaspoon? We can't just sit back and let it happen."

"If we fight 'em, we could lose our own jobs," advised Ike.

"We'll lose a lot more if we don't," Lou predicted.

"You know," Ike noted, "we're forgettin' one thing, the Kid would never take Teaspoon's job. He'd never walk over a friend to get ahead."

Lou draped her arms over the top railing of the fence and buried her face into the rough wood. What would she do if the Kid was sent away? Ike and the others were her family now. Was her love for the Kid strong enough to bear their loss?

* * * *

The pointed edge of a sharp branch sliced across Hickok's cheek. Raising his fingers to the welt, he wiped off the blood. The moonless night was both a blessing and a curse. No one could follow their trail in the darkness. Yet, hidden dangers waited within the unfamiliar countryside. Jimmy knew he would have to stop soon, if for no other reason then to check the Kid's injury. The compress he'd applied earlier may have dislodged or become sodden with blood.

He pulled back on the reins. As he prepared to dismount, a shadowy figure rose from the ground almost in front of the Kid's horse. Spooked, the animal reared, sending its passenger flying into the bushes. Fear for his friend made Jimmy dismount in haste. Tired fingers cramped around the thin strips of leather. There was no strength to hold the powerful beast. The reins slipped across his hands, slapping the massive chest. The horse reared, calling out her fear she followed the Kid's horse into the surrounding brush, leaving a path of destruction in its wake.

Realizing it would be futile to pursue the fleeing animals, Hickok hurried to his friend's side. "Kid, are you all right?'

"I will be if you don't tell Cody I got thrown." Pain was clearly audible in the feeble voice, belying the brave masquerade.

Jimmy's initial relief quickly disappeared. Their circumstances had been bleak before, now they were desperate. How far could they get on foot? After checking the blood-stained bandage, he helped the Kid to his feet. All they had was the clothes on their backs and their guns. There was nothing to repair the damage a bullet had perpetrated on delicate flesh.

Glancing around at the stark landscape outlined in the dim glow of the stars, Jimmy suddenly remembered the shadowy figure that had spooked their horses. Taking a protective stance next to the Kid, he drew his pistol.

"Drop the gun and raise your hands, Mister."

Frantically listening for a noise that would establish the direction of the voice, Hickok resisted the order until he felt the unmistakable impression of a gun barrel in his back. Given no other recourse, he obeyed the command and raised one hand. The other, he defiantly kept around the Kid's waist. "My friend's hurt. Can you help us?"

The reply was so long in coming, Hickok had started to believe there wouldn't be any.

Finally the voice whispered, "What's wrong with him?"

This time, it was Jimmy's turn to hesitate. Revealing the information that it was a gunshot wound was as likely to chase the mysterious stranger away as it was to elicit his aid. But Jimmy had never been very good at lying. He preferred to tell the truth, even when it could hurt. "He's been shot."

"By whom?" No longer whispering, the strangely accented voice came from a different location.

Confused, but grateful that the rifle barrel wasn't pressed against his spine, Hickok replied, "Jayhawkers."

"Are you Bushwhackers?"

"We're Pony Express riders," Jimmy defensively snapped. "We don't want to be here any more than you want us here."

"Jacob."

A form rose out of the bushes next to Hickok, making him jump. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw other figures hiding among the trees nearby.

"Jacob, help this man with his injured friend," the mysterious stranger requested. "We'll take them with us."

"Do ya think that wise, Missy?"

Only the threat of the rifle kept Hickok from turning to confront his assailant. That a woman had gotten the drop on him was more a curiosity than an embarrassment. It at least explained the high-pitched voice if not the accent.

"What would you have me do, Jacob?" the young woman demanded. "Leave them here to die? An Easterner could find the trail those horses just left."

"I guess not," came the reluctant reply.

Moving to where Hickok could see her, Missy held the rifle with an undeniable authority as she called out, "It's all right, you can come out now."

Forms melted out of the darkness and into the dim light. By the time they had reassembled, Jimmy saw there were two men and a woman. The color of their skin allowed them to blend in easily with the shadows surrounding them.

"I'll take the lead, Jacob," advised Missy. "If you can't keep up, I'll see you at the Sanctuary."

Hampered by their burden, Hickok and Jacob quickly fell behind. Still, Jimmy realized their progress was much better than it would've been if he'd been alone. He was grateful to the tall, black man, not only for his unflagging strength, but for his understanding silence.

Exhausted, Jimmy followed in a daze, barely taking any notice of the landmarks. He was beyond caring where they were going, or who they were going with. Everyone in Missouri seemed to be their enemy - except for the small, white girl and the tall, black man at his side.

Jimmy was practically sleepwalking when he almost bumped into a large wooden structure. Only Jacob's protective hand prevented him from doing so. As they waited for a response to the brown-skinned man's coded knock, Jimmy inspected what he could see of the building. From the size and the distinct odor of manure and animal flesh, it was obviously a barn.

The door opened to a dark interior. Even as he wondered if he was making a mistake, Jimmy followed Jacob and the Kid inside. A lamp flickered, casting a dim light in the corner where they stood. For the second time that evening, Hickok found himself facing the wrong end of a gun barrel.

"That's as far as you go, Mister."

A man, almost as tall as Jacob, but much older, stood in front of the boys. The hands holding the rifle were visibly shaking. Jimmy knew he could disarm the frightened gentlemen, but he chose not to. Teaspoon's training had shown him it was an action that could needlessly endanger lives.

"My daughter told me you're Pony Express riders. What're you doing this far east?" The rifle vibrated as the man ineffectually tried to press his query.

"Normally, we ride out of the Sweetwater Station in Nebraska Territory," explained Jimmy. "We were sent to St. Joe to make a special delivery."

The rifle lowered slightly as the man found himself caught up in the tale. "What were you delivering?"

"I don't know," Jimmy reluctantly confessed. "Only my friend could tell you that."

"Why should I believe you?" the courtly figure demanded, raising the rifle again.

Missy stepped out of the darkness to stand beside Hickok. "Because I believe them, Daddy."

"They could be spies, Missy," Jacob cautioned, even as he lifted the unconscious Kid and cradled him in his arms.

The girl's eyes rested on the Kid's pale features. "He doesn't have the face for it." Her gaze shifting to Jimmy, she added, "And he doesn't have the heart."

"Melissa Sue," the older man chastised, "that kind of reasoning could mean death for us all."

Raising the lantern so she could check the Kid's wound, she pointed out, "This boy could bleed to death while we debate the validity of my instincts. Is that what you want, Daddy?"

Whoever these people were, Hickok decided, they were highly educated. Hearing their voices in a tone above a whisper, he'd finally identified the accent that had perplexed him earlier. They obviously came from some where south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Only the Kid's condition kept Jimmy from showing his disdain for people who could treat the gentle black man who'd helped them as property.

"I guess you're right, Melissa Sue," her father conceded. "Why don't you and Jacob take the boys below? I'll get my things."

Hickok felt a traitor to his beliefs as he followed Jacob to the back of the barn. Melissa Sue easily shifted a heavy bale of hay to reveal a trap door. Together, the two men carried the Kid down a steep flight of stairs. The room was small and damp, smelling of the dark earth from which it'd been dug. In the far corner the small group of slaves Hickok had confronted in the woods were already sleeping. Their exhaustion was clearly apparent when they failed to react to the new arrivals.

Jacob gently laid the Kid on a thin pallet near the stairs. Despite the chill of the autumn air, his face shone with perspiration.

A noise above them made Jimmy reach for his gun. A small hand rested on his, stopping his instinctive reaction.

"It's all right, it's my father," soothed Melissa Sue. 

The older man made the decent with a remarkable agility. Crossing to the Kid's side, he opened the bag he'd brought. Taking out a pair of scissors, he cut away the buckskin shirt exposing the bloody wound underneath. "Jacob, would you get a bucket of water, please."

"What do you think, Daddy?" Melissa Sue anxiously inquired.

Putting his hand on the sweating forehead, the older man shook his head. "He's got a fever. That bullet will have to come out."

"If you tell me where I can find one," Jimmy immediately offered, "I'll ride for a doctor."

"That wouldn't be very smart, Mr . . ." the gentleman paused before continuing. "By the way, what are your names?"

Though he was impatient with the inquiry, Jimmy replied, "I'm Jimmy Hickok and this is the Kid."

"The Kid?" Melissa Sue regarded Hickok in disbelief. "That can't really be his name?"

"Well if he's got another, I don't know it." Hickok's face flushed red with embarrassment. For a moment, he almost hated his reticent friend for putting him in this predicament.

Obviously unaware his hand was covered with blood, the older man offered it to Hickok as he completed the introductions, "I'm Robert Clairborne, and this ungracious young lady is my daughter, Melissa Sue."

His agitation growing with each passing minute, Jimmy curtly acknowledged the information before pressing, "Now where will I find a doctor?"

"Even if I told you, we can't take the risk of contacting him," Clairborne explained. "The men who are after you will be watching the doctors. It's too dangerous."

"I'm willing to take the chance," Jimmy unhesitatingly declared.

His eyes resting on the sleeping figures at the other end of the room, Clairborne shook his head, "Well, I'm not, there are more lives at stake than just yours and your friend's."

"What do you want me to do?" the young gunfighter desperately cried. "Sit here and watch him die?"

Melissa Sue put a soothing hand on the agitated boy's arm. "My Daddy has helped others, he can save your friend."

"I can try," corrected Clairborne. "The bullet is deep and he's a very sick boy."

"But you will try?" Hickok urged.

Clairborne took a deep breath before nodding agreement. "I can't sit here and watch him die either."

Jimmy would never forget the hours that followed. He sat on the Kid's legs, while Jacob held the shoulders. Clairborne had barely started to probe for the bullet when the Kid regained consciousness. Despite his weakness, he fought his captivity with a surprising strength. Muffled cries of pain escaped around the wood that had been placed in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue. Each cry tore into Hickok, making him feel his friend's pain. Closing his eyes only seemed amplify his discomfort. By the time the bullet was extracted from the bloody wound, they were all soaked with sweat - and fear for the young life that had fought so desperately to live.

* * * *

Drawing his gun, Sam lead the way down into the ravine to face their prey. Buck's knowledge and abilities had helped them cover the distance in half the time it might otherwise have taken. Now it was up to the Marshal to display his own talents. "Get yer hands up."

The order received prompt obedience. Five sets of hands reached for the sky. Confusion filled Cain, making his gun waver as he studied the "outlaws" who had turned to face him. A slim black man stepped protectively in front of a young woman and the baby cradled in a large scarf tied across her chest. Pieces of cheese and cracker crumbs circled the mouths of a little boy so light-skinned he was almost white and two little girls.

"Don't shoot, Mister," pleaded the worried father. "We don't want no trouble."

Instinct telling him these people were no danger to him, Sam holstered his gun. "Who are you? Why did you rob that general store a week or so back?"

"We aint' thieves," the young mother indignantly stated. "The chil'ren was hungry."

Putting a hand on his wife's arm, her husband pointed out, "We are thieves. We let Toby steal from that store."

Buck stepped out from behind the bush where he had been hiding. "It's all right, we won't hurt you."

"We didn't mean no harm," the man proudly defended. "My name's Isaac, this is my wife, Sarah, and our children, Toby, Martha, Rachel and little Benjamin."

His eyes scanning the meager belongings, Sam pressed, "Where do you come from?"

The answer, when it came was hesitant and unexpected, "We're escaped slaves, headin' for Canada."

"You shouldn't have told them," Sarah fearfully protested.

"It's all right," Buck repeated, holding out a comforting hand. "I meant it when I said we wouldn't hurt you, didn't I, Sam?"

"We can't arrest a thief we never tracked down," Sam innocently agreed. Turning away to head back the way they'd come, he called a heartfelt, "Good luck," to the brave family.

As they climbed the hill back to their horses, Buck noted, "Do you know what the worst part of all this is, Sam? We can't ever let Thompkins find out that we know he was bested by a ten-year-old boy."

* * * *

Luxuriating in the feel of the soft mattress beneath him, Jimmy stretched and ran his hands up and down the pad. Though thin, it was better than the hard ground he'd slept on since leaving the Sweetwater Station. Smiling contentedly, he reluctantly opened his eyes. His sense of well being disappeared when he saw Melissa Sue bending over the Kid. "What's wrong?"

"He still has a fever," the young woman explained, dropping a strip of material into a bowl. Retrieving it, she rung out the excess water before placing it on the Kid's forehead.

Crossing to her side, Jimmy put a tentative hand on his friend's burning chest. He could feel the rapid beating of the over-worked heart and it scared him. "Will he be all right?"

"If we can bring this fever down, he's got a good chance," Melissa Sue encouraged.

Sometime during the long night, Jimmy had lost his contempt for these people. They had fought hard to save the Kid's life. Now, all he felt was gratitude and curiosity. "I can tell by your accent that you don't come from around here," he probed.

"I was born and raised on a plantation about a hundred miles south and east of Atlanta, Georgia," Melissa Sue admitted, her chapped hands laying another compress on the Kid's fevered brow.

Jimmy scrutinized the young woman in the flickering light of the lantern. Faint wrinkles crept from the edges of the bright, green eyes. Beneath the tanned skin of the round face, exhaustion was clearly evident. Long dishwater blond hair hung almost to her narrow waist. Pieces of straw clung to the unruly tresses.

As he watched her wipe the perspiration from the Kid's face with an understanding tenderness, Hickok felt confused. How could she care so much for a stranger, yet retain a slave? "How can you own a man like Jacob?"

"We don't own Jacob," Melissa Sue angrily denied. "He works for us."

"Isn't that just another form of slavery?" pressed Hickok.

Her shaking hands visibly displaying her emotions, Melissa Sue asked, "Do you consider what you do for the Pony Express slavery?"

Hickok shook his head. "No, but I get paid a salary, and if I want to quit and move on, I'm free to do so."

"So is Jacob," revealed Melissa Sue, pushing her hair out of her eyes with a wet hand.

Confused, Hickok pointed out, "Property hasn't got any rights."

"Jacob isn't property." Her anger evaporating, Melissa Sue elucidated, "We pay him a salary, though not nearly as much as he's worth, it's all we can afford. He stays with us because he's our friend, part of our family."

Brushing his fingers across his forehead, Jimmy avoided the woman's eyes. "But he was your slave once?"

"Yes," Melissa Sue sighed unhappily. "Slavery was the only way we could afford to work the plantation. But we were never cruel, and we never treated our workers like they were our property. We kept slaves because it was the only way to work the land."

"What made you leave?" asked Hickok, never doubting the sincerity of her words.

Her hands hanging motionless above the bowl of water, Melissa Sue closed her eyes as though this action could shut out the pain. "Our foreman died during a measles epidemic. We badly misjudged the new man we hired. He beat Jacob's daughter to death after raping her. My mother died a few weeks later. Daddy says it was from a broken heart. We freed the other workers and sold the plantation before moving up here."

"Where you operate a station on the Underground Railroad," Hickok finished.

"Yes," the young woman hesitantly admitted. "We have a debt to pay."

Jimmy wished he could ease his companion's obvious pain. But this was an ache that went deep into her soul, a place he didn't know how to reach. He desperately wished the Kid would regain consciousness - he would know what to say.

The trapdoor above them swung open, making them both jump. God's light poured into the small enclosure, blinding its occupants. "Missy, strangers are comin'," called Jacob. "You best come up."

"I'm on my way, Jacob." Wiping her hands on her apron, Melissa Sue cautioned, "Whatever you do, don't make a sound."

Before Hickok could offer his protection, she had climbed the stairs and closed the trapdoor. The scrapping of a bale of hay being pushed across the opening followed. In their underground hideout, the occupants felt the vibration of a large number of horses thundering across the field near the barn.

For a long time, the uneasy captives heard nothing else. Hickok had just begun to hope that Jacob's warning had been a false alarm when a familiar voice filtered down into their sanctuary. Drawing his gun, Jimmy pointed it at the trapdoor. If Jennison happened to uncover their hideaway, it would be the last discovery he ever made.

"We told ya, we ain't seen no strangers here abouts, Mister." Melissa Sue's words lacked the breeding Hickok had come to associate with the young woman. "There's no call for you to be messin' around our barn."

"If you think I believe you, lady, you're tangling with the wrong man," Jennison calmly stated. "Bob, Reg, check the loft. Milt, Roger, you look around down here."

Sounds of the search penetrated the plank flooring. Barely daring to breath, the captives anxiously waited.

"It looks clean, Doc."

Jimmy's heart ached as he recognized Reg's high tones. He'd betrayed the youth - a wound, he knew from experience would never heal.

"Let's move on, boys," Jennison ordered. "Those two couldn't have gotten far on foot."

By the time the sound of the searchers footsteps had faded, Jimmy's shoulders were aching with tension. A gentle grip on his forearm drew his attention. Looking up at him with alert eyes and a smile on his face was the Kid. Dropping his head, the young gunslinger gave a silent thanks before gripping his friend's good shoulder and whispering, "Welcome back, Kid."

"How long have I been out?" rasped the Kid, pulling the now dry compress from his forehead?

"Too long," muttered Hickok, so low it was barely audible. Before his friend could probe further, he added, "It's hard to tell time down here. I don't know how long it's been."

"Well, from what I just heard, I don't think that's necessary any more," the Kid whispered his gaze resting on the drawn pistol.

As Hickok sheepishly returned the gun to his holster, the trapdoor swung open to admit Jacob and the Clairbornes. Their faces were dirty and bruised. Jennison's men hadn't discriminated against sex, color, or age - he'd beaten all three equally. An unquenchable anger burned inside Jimmy at the sight of the abuse.

"It's all right, they're gone," comforted Melissa Sue, crossing to the black woman's side. Tears streaked the dark face, but she hadn't made a sound.

"It's not all right," Hickok argued. "They beat you."

"At least they haven't burned us out yet," Melissa Sue heatedly contested. "We have to be thankful for the extra time they've given us."

"What does that mean?" a suspicious Hickok demanded, his gaze resting first on the young woman before shifting to her father.

"She means it's time for you to go," Clairborne explained. "It isn't safe for you here. We're slave owners to them. When they can't find you, they'll come back here to vent their anger."

Pushing up to a sitting position, the Kid offered, "You helped us, now let us help you."

"Even if you could stop them this time," Jacob pointed out, "they'll keep coming back. Men who feel they have right on their side can be hard to stop."

"What we'd like you to do," said Clairborne, running a shaking hand through the thinning gray hair on his head, "is take our wagon and these former slaves to the next station. I'll give you directions."

Hickok shook his head. "They'll be on us in a minute."

"The wagon has a false bottom," reveal Clairborne. "It's large enough to fit two people, three if we have to. A load of hay will conceal the discrepancies." 

Gesturing to the frightened ex-slaves huddled in the corner, the Kid commented, "They'll be safer if you took them. We'll be recognized."

"Not if you're dressed like a woman," Melissa Sue contradicted. "They'll never be expecting a disguise. I have some broad brim bonnets that'll hide your faces."

"I ain't wearin' no dress," Hickok hotly insisted.

Jacob put a hand on Jimmy's tense shoulder as he admonished, "You do whatever you gotta do to save your life, boy. There's no shame in survivin'."

Despite the black man's advice, Jimmy did feel remorse. Not for himself, but for these people who he'd so badly misjudged and was now forced to leave behind. He felt like a deserter running away, leaving others to face the smoking guns. Yet, how could he refuse them when they were sacrificing so much so that he and the others could live? He couldn't throw their courage back in their faces. For once, he would bury his own desires for another's.

* * * *

They were only a few miles north of the Clairborne farm when Jennison's men stopped them. Fearful that he might be more easily recognized, Hickok ducked his head and kept silent, letting the Kid do the talking. He felt vulnerable without a gun strapped to his waist. It was an unfamiliar emotion for him. One he hoped to never experience again.

Ever the gentleman, Jennison tipped his hat. "Good afternoon, ladies, I'm sorry to trouble you, but we're on the trail of two fugitives from justice. Would you mind if we searched your wagon?"

"Good gracious," the Kid cried, the pitch of his voice several octaves higher than normal. Putting a gloved hand to his throat, he remonstrated, "I'm sure there's no one hiding in our hay, but you're welcome to look, of course."

By the time the ruffians had made their search, almost as much hay lay on the ground as in the wagon. All during the investigation, Hickok watched the Kid with concern. He could almost feel what little energy his friend had ebbing away. Sliding closer to the injured boy, he tried to imbue him with some of his own strength.

"Sorry to have troubled you, ladies, good day." Jennison tipped his hat again as he kicked his horse in the side.

Dust swirled around them, making it difficult to breathe. Jimmy slapped the horses on the back with the reins, moving them forward out of the enveloping cloud and closer to freedom.

Unable to bear the discomfort of the bow holding his bonnet in place, Jimmy put both reins in one hand, and raised the other to untie it. His hand was only halfway to its destination when it was held back by another.

"Don't do it, Jimmy," the Kid cautioned. "Jennison's Jayhawkers aren't the only ones we have to worry about. The Bushwhackers would love to get their hands on our passengers."

As Jimmy reluctantly took the reins in both hands again, his eyes rested with distaste on the brown gingham skirt covering his knees. His embarrassment was eased only slightly by the fact that the Kid's dress was an eye catching red with a bonnet trimmed in lace. Jimmy smiled in spite of his own discomfiture.

"What's so funny?' the Kid demanded, noting Hickok's interest.

His eyes returning to the road, Jimmy had to consciously refrain from resting his elbows on his knees, a most unladylike position. "You make a pretty good looking woman, Kid."

Not certain whether that was intended as a compliment or not, the Kid hesitantly asked, "How much of this are you going to tell the others when we get home?"

The image of Cody's mocking face rose in front of the young gunslinger, making him shudder. "They don't need to know we made our escape wearing dresses."

"I agreed," the Kid hastily reassured.

Hickok's answering smile disappeared. Jennison's sudden appearance had demonstrated how dangerous their position was. Fearful the future might never give him another chance, he said, "I'm sorry, Kid."

Caught off guard by the apology, the Kid turned a puzzled gaze on the shadow that hid his friend's face, "What for?"

"Like you said, I was judging you and everyone who's from the South the same," Hickok admitted. "I was wrong."

The Kid shook his head. "It was partly my fault, too, Jimmy. I never should've lost my temper."

The road curved into a stand of trees. From Clairborne's instructions, Jimmy knew the path would fork ahead. Their destination lay to the left. They'd barely entered the forest, when the horses started to act up. Fighting to control the powerful beasts, Hickok ignored the Kid's gasp of surprise until the other boy put a hand on his arm to demand his attention.

"Jimmy, look."

Shifting his attention from the distraught animals, Hickok raised his head to follow the Kid's pointing finger. An old tree towered over the two forks of the road. From one of its sturdy branches, a man hung by his neck. Jimmy closed his eyes when he realized the body was Reg Lawler. The horror of the boy's last moments could be seen on the waxy features. A placard had been tied around his neck: "Here hangs a traitor. He chose the wrong friends."

Bile rose in Jimmy's throat. Swallowing with difficulty, he slapped the reins down hard on the backs of the horses, averting his eyes as they rode around the tree at a trot.

"Are you all right, Jimmy?" inquired the Kid, obviously noting his friend's reaction.

"Fine," Hickok simply stated. Grateful the bonnet hid his face from view, he buried his feelings behind a hastily built wall. But it was a flimsy structure made from the stones of guilt and self-loathing.

* * * *

Jimmy entered the bunkhouse to find the Kid sitting at the table cleaning his gun. This was the first time the boys had been alone since their return to the Sweetwater Station two days before. Still recovering from his wound, the Kid was severely restricted by Emma in the activities he could perform.

Hanging his hat and holster on a hook, Jimmy sat at the table across from his friend. They were in almost the same positions they'd been the night they'd argued. Crossing his arms in front of him in an unconscious gesture of protection, Jimmy probed, "If I ask you a question, will you answer it?"

"If you'll answer one of mine," the Kid agreed, after a slight hesitation.

His eyes studying the sincere features on the face before him, Jimmy pressed, "You've never said what was in that letter that was so important it almost destroyed our friendship."

"It was a list of addresses," explained the Kid, dropping his eyes to the shining barrel of his revolver. "Stations in the Underground Railroad."

For a moment, Jimmy was speechless. He'd imagined many things, but this wasn't one of them. "What happened to it? All Jennison found was an empty envelope."

"I tore it up and threw it in the fire," admitted the Kid. "Until it was opened, I didn't know what I was carrying. All I knew was they threatened to fire you, me, and Teaspoon if I didn't deliver it."

The anger that had twisted Hickok's face disappeared. "I guess it's for the best they chose you. At least you destroyed it."

"I warned Melissa Sue and the others we met on our escape." The Kid thoughtfully reflected, "None of them were surprised or planned to move on. They were willing to take their chances."

"Maybe they feel they have a debt to pay," said Hickok, remembering what Melissa Sue had given as the reason for risking her life.

"You know what's funny?" The Kid smiled without mirth. "I never even knew the name of the man who entrusted the letter to me or the man I delivered it to."

"They probably didn't want you to know," Jimmy decided after a moment's contemplation.

"That's what Teaspoon thinks, too," the Kid revealed. "He said there was protection in anonymity. That was another reason why they wanted someone from another station to avoid potentially embarrassing questions."

Hoping he was understood the reason correctly, Hickok rose to his feet as he cautiously nodded, "Teaspoon's usually right, I've found."

"Wait a minute, Jimmy, where are you going?" demanded the Kid, reaching across the table to catch his friend's sleeve. "It's my turn to ask a question, remember?'

Disappointment wrinkled the smooth brow as Hickok reluctantly returned to the bench. "I remember."

"That man we saw hanging in the tree; you knew him, didn't you?" the Kid gently probed.

Rising to his feet, Jimmy crossed to the window and gazed out onto a land that was as bleak as his soul. "Reg wasn't a man. He was a boy in a man's body. I was able to save you because of my friendship with him. It cost him his life."

Silence filled the room. Jimmy was grateful the Kid hadn't tried to soothe him with meaningless platitudes. "Reg would be alive today if he hadn't been my friend."

"Would he?" the Kid skeptically inquired. "You saw what they were doing in Missouri, killing innocent people, burning farms. There is no reason, no sanity in their actions… only hate."

Quickly wiping a tear from his cheek Jimmy turned to face his friend. "Do you think Reg would still be alive if I hadn't turned up?"

"It isn't important what I think," offered the Kid, laying his gun on the table. "What do you think?"

Remembering their first meeting in the saloon in Marysville, Hickok had to shake his head. "He didn't have the character to be a Jayhawker. I tried to get him to go home, but he said there were too many battles left to fight."

"In every battle there's risk," the Kid pointed out. "He took a chance and he lost."

"He didn't deserve to die like that," Hickok angrily countered.

The Kid's eyes stared through Hickok as though he wasn't there. "No one should die by a friend's hand." 

Frightened by the horror reflected in the blue eyes, Hickok was struck once again by how little he knew of the boy sitting in front of him. In an effort to banish the pain his friend would never explain, he forced a smile. "Or forced to wear a dress."

The cloud shadowing the Kid's face dissipated as he returned the smile. "The dress wasn't bad, it was that bonnet that drove me crazy."

The door swung open, slamming against the wall. Cody strode in like a man with a mission. Lou, Buck, and Ike followed at a more sedate pace.

"I just realized," Cody announced, "that you guys never told us how you escaped from the Clairborne's farm. All those Jayhawkers were lookin' for ya and the Bushwhackers were lookin' for the slaves. You couldn't have just ridden out on horseback or in a wagon. So how'd ya do it?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Cody," Hickok noted, smiling conspiratorially at the Kid. "So I don't think I will."


End file.
